Free Confession of the Lioness by Mia Couto Page B

husband: This child will never be a hunter.
    *   *   *
    Once the traps have been collected, I return home, and by the light of an oil lamp open my notebook. I look distractedly at my recollections for the day.
    Are you left-handed, then? the writer walks over and asks.
    Yes. But I’m right-handed when I shoot.
    Then, suddenly inspired, I explain that I hold children with my left hand. I can’t do that with the hand that kills.
    That’s strange , Gustavo responds. In most cultures, it’s the left hand that is ill-fated. What tribe did you get such an idea from?
    From my own, the Bullseye tribe. Nowadays, I’m the only one left in the tribe.
    And what are you writing, if that’s not an indiscretion?
    I’m writing this story.
    What story?
    The story of this hunting expedition. I’m going to publish a book.
    Gustavo can’t conceal a nervous smile. My disclosure’s had the effect of a punch in the stomach. Questions then follow, one after the other: A book?… And who is going to publish it?… And what format would I adopt, a novel, reportage? I put a stop to his barrage of doubts and interrogation. As if to placate him, I ask:
    Do you think I won’t manage to do it?
    And why wouldn’t you be able to?
    Writing isn’t like hunting. You need a lot more courage. Opening yourself up like that, exposing myself without a weapon, defenseless …
    Gustavo understands the irony of my words. Then he decides to attack me on my own terrain:
    I’ve already told you I hate hunting.
    So why are you here?
    In this instance, there’s no alternative if we want to protect human life.
    Do you know what I think it is? Fear.
    What do you mean?
    You’re scared.
    Me?
    You’re scared of yourself. You’re scared of being hunted by the animal that dwells inside you.
    Gustavo turns his back, but I don’t give up: No matter how long he might live in a modern, urban world, the primitive bush would still remain alive within him. Part of his soul would always be untamed, full of insuperable monsters.
    Come with me to the bush and you’ll see: You’re a savage, my dear writer.
    Call me what you like, but I don’t find it at all heroic to fire on defenseless animals. There’s no glory in such an unequal contest.
    Without a word, I take a lion’s claw and tooth from my haversack and place it on the table.
    What do you think this is?
    They’re parts of a lion.
    Parts? They’re weapons. These are the lion’s shotguns. As you can see, the creature is better equipped than I am. So, who’s the hunter? Me or him?
    This conversation isn’t getting us anywhere.
    Let me tell you this: For a reporter, you got off to a really bad start.
    Why’s that?
    You didn’t understand why I destroyed the traps.
    And you got off to an even worse start: Before destroying them, you didn’t even bother to speak to the people who’d spent so much time making them.
    Do you know something, my writer friend? It would be better if I’d come here to hunt vampires rather than lions. Vampires sell well, and you’d have a guaranteed bestseller.
    I blow on the candle and darkness falls over the room. Outside, the full moon awakens some feline restlessness within me. Beneath my closed eyelids, my mind returns again to Luzilia. Suddenly, however, another vision emerges before me. It’s a beautiful young black girl. It’s a local girl smiling on the riverbank. She is faceless, and could be any woman from the village. Tonight, I sleep with all the women of Kulumani.
    *   *   *
    I hadn’t been asleep for long before I heard roars. The world remained in suspense. A lion’s growl leaves no silence in its wake.
    Can you hear? the writer asked, in a panic.
    It’s a lioness. It’s still a long way off.
    The roars gradually faded away. Silence fell over the darkness. At last, I could begin my war with